ANGELO 



at JBoem 



BY 



STUART STERNE ^ ip^KA. 
13 t^^ ^ ^ i2>T-A/MXX^ 



is^msMi 



i^m 






BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

1900 



Copyright, 1877, 
By victor G. BLOEDE. 

All rights reserved. 
By transfer 

U. S. Soldiers Home Lib. 

yOV 5 194! 



TWENTY THIRD IMPRESSION. 



T3ll03 



The Riverside Press ^ Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 



TO 

RICHARD GRANT WHITE, 

WHOSE MOST MAGNANIMOUS APPRECIATION 

OF WHAT LITTLE HAD BEEN DONE, 

WHOSE NOBLE CONFIDENCE IN WHAT MORE MIGHT YET BE DONE, 

BY ONE HE DID NOT KNOW AND HAD NEVER SEEN, 

LIKE A FLOOD OF GENEROUS SUNSHINE 

EARLIER QUICKENED INTO GROWTH WHATEVER POWERS, 

WHATEVER GERMS AND POSSIBILITIES OF HIGHER DEVELOPMENT 

THAT STRANGER MAY POSSESS, 

WITH THE EARNEST HOPE THAT HE MAY FIND IT 

WORTHIER OF HIS ACCEPTANCE THAN HE COULD HAVE FOUND 

ANY PREVIOUS EFFORT, 

El)i& fLaior of 3Lo&e 

IN WARMEST GRATITUDE IS DEDICATED 
BY 

s. s. 



Above all, he loved Vittoria Colonna, Marchesa of Pescara^ 
of whose divine spirit he was enamored, being in return most 
sincerely beloved by her. She several times left the places where 
she had gone to spend the sicmmer, and came to Rome, forno 
other purpose than to see Michel Angela, and he in return bore 
her so great a love, that I remember hearing him say that no- 
thing grieved him save that when he went to see her as she was 
passing from this life he had not kissed her brow or her cheeks 
as he kissed her hand. — CoNDlvi, Life of Michel Angelo. 



ANGELO. 



Vespers were ended. The last clouds of incense, 
Whose fragrant wreaths, rising from out the cen- 
ser 
The pretty boy had swung, obscured an instant 
The high old altarpiece, — the Saviour toiling 
Beneath the burden of his cross up hill, — 
Were faded now; the chanting voices silent; 
The deep-toned organ hushed, whose mighty breath 
Filled the dim arches of the vaulted dome 
With strains divine; the benediction given; 
The parting bell rung, whose last, singing echoes 
And faint vibrations slowly died away 
On the soft, balmy air. The worshipers 
Streamed from the heavy portal, dark with age. 
And carved by master-hand with many a quaint 
And fanciful device of angel faces. 
And grinning masks, and clustering fruit and 

flowers. 
And slowly parting, here and there dispersed: 



6 ANGELO, 

Some sauntering leisurely to stately homes, 
Others bending their swifter steps in haste 
Towards humble cots, till all were lost to view, 
Their robes long gleaming gayly everywhere 
Along the windings of the path that led 
Up to the chapel on the hill. Its brow 
O'erlooked the country spreading far around 
The Eternal City on her seven hills, 
Upon whose sides, amid the pillared mansions 
Nestling in dark-hued, never-fading green, 
Showed here and there great flecks of russet 

marks 
Of the advancing autumn, but as yet 
Clad with full verdure by the dense-leaved vines 
That decked them everywhere. Valley and hills, 
And the great, yellow river sluggishly 
Washing their foot, all bathed and flooded now 
By the last mellow light of golden evening ; 
The sun already hanging low, the shadows 
E'en now half purpling in the deeper dells 
Where his beams reached no more. 

From out the chapel 
The portly priest had passed, with smile benign, 
And muttered, " Peace be with you, my good 

children ! " 
Dispensing blessings from his plump, white hands 



ANGELO. 7 

To such old crones as hung about him, eager 
To catch them, or to touch the garments of 
The reverend father. In the cool, broad aisles, 
Beneath the quiet arches, — here what lingered 
Of sultry summer still, too loath to go. 
In the warm air outside, had never entered, — 
None stayed now save the group close by the 

altar. 
Near the stained window, where the sun, that 

poured 
Through the wide open doors in one broad 

stream 
Upon the marble floor, fell softly, broken 
To many-colored, glowing lights. A cluster 
Of men engaged in eager speech, some wearing 
The gay-hued liveries of the courtier, others 
In the more sober garb of priest or scholar, 
Speakers and listeners both, gathered round her 
Who sat among them like one graciously 
Holding her court. A court that ever grew. 
For some who had cared little to attend 
The holy services, yet hungered for 
This other feast, now wending up the hill, 
Entered to join the rest. 

Among them, too, 
Came Angelo, in converse with the friend 



8 ANGELO. 

Who brought him hither. As he crossed the 

threshold, 
A swift, sUght thrill — he marveled could it be 
But the cool shadows that enfolded them 
So suddenly after their hasty walk — 
Shook all his heart an instant. 

Ah, small need, 
He thought, as his keen glance flew through the 

church, 
Even had a thousand other women thronged it, ^ 
There was but one save her, a little maid 
Standing behind her chair, whose idle gaze 
Or vaguely wandered round her listlessly 
Or curiously was fixed on each new comer, — 
Small need, in truth, to question which was she ! 
So must, so could but she alone have looked 
Whose fame, whose virtues, and whose rare, sweet 

beauty 
Filling the world, so oft rang in his ears, 
Making her name familiar as a song 
Long known and loved. 

Some others were before him 
And as they were presented to her favor 
Angelo noted she received them seated. 
With but a gracious motion of her hand. 
And bending slightly forward. But when he 



ANGELO, 9 

Advanced to her, she rose and came to meet 

him, 
And when he, forced to sudden reverence, awed 
By something in her presence, bowed full low, 
With half humility, the stalwart frame 
That was not wont to bend to friend or foe, 
She cried out eagerly, stretching her hand, — 
" Nay, nay, Maestro ! suffer that I take 
Your own in mine, the noble master-hand, 
That so most swift and faithfully obeys 
What the still nobler master-mind commands, 
Has made the world rich in immortal works, 
And for your brow plucked shining laurels time 
Can never fade ! " 

And when most willingly 
He yielded her his hand, she added softly. 
And 'twas but now he heard her gentle voice 
Was sweet as music, — 

"Aye, in truth. Maestro, 
This day, long wished for, is a golden one 
Within the record of my life!" 

" Surely 
In mine no less, Marchesa ! " said he, simply. 
" You honor me too much, illustrious lady ! 
I 'd come ere now to pay my grateful homage 
To one it was so long my wish to some time 



lO ANGELO, 

Meet face to face, yet 'tis but three days since 
That I returned here from my journey north, 
Where I was much detained." 

"Let us be seated," 
She said again, and stepping back through those 
Upon whose busy tongues silence had fallen 
As Angelo approached, who one and all 
Saluted reverently and made way, 
Prayed him sit by her side. 

" And you, my friends," 
She asked, turning to them once more, " will you 
Not now take up again the broken thread 
Of your discourse ? " And then to Angelo, — 
"We were discussing as you came. Maestro, 
The sister arts of brush and chisel, wherein 
You are consummate master." 

" How, Marchesa, 
You bid us now continue," one rejoined, 
" Here before him, the lion in our path ! " 
Glancing half timidly at Angelo, 
" Who might confound us all with but a breath, 
If it so pleased him ? " 

"Aye, and wherefore not.? 
Another in gay garb, with laughing eyes, 
Cried out more boldly. " Have we each of us 
Not his own head upon his shoulders? What 



ANGELO. II 

If none dispute how Master Angelo 
Towers like a giant over all us pigmies, 
The greatest of his age and clime ! " 

And seeing 
How Angelo himself by a grave smile, 
And motion of his hand to heed him not. 
Approved the manly speech, they all fell back 
Into their former converse. The Marchesa 
Listened most part in silence, earnestly 
Sometimes, and sometimes half amused, but 

rarely 
Joining in any argument, yet ever 
Turning to Angelo with some remark 
In tone subdued ; and once she asked, " Maestro, 
Does all this chatter vex you? Say the word, 
And I will send them all away ! " " No, no ! " 
He answered, who had scarce once lent his ear 
To all they said, but sat wrapt up and lost 
In silent contemplation of herself. 

How passing fair she was, how stately still, 
She who had been so many years a wife. 
And then a mourning widow ! Time nor grief 
Had power to dim the lustre of her beauty, 
And what they took from it of the first flower 
Of youth and freshness, rendered amply back. 



12 • ANGELO. 

In all the charms of mellow womanhood. 

How like a queen of ripest, royal blood, 

Yet half unconscious of her sovereign state, 

With mildness crowned more than with majesty, 

Grave gentleness and winning dignity 

Most happily blended with a girlish grace 

In form and features ! A white brow so placid 

It seemed eternal peace shone there serene ; 

And yet about the delicate lips, carved proudly, 

But full of latent sweetness, a fine trace 

Of secret pain, that told how this great peace 

Was won not without struggle, gained, mayhap, 

Through bitter storms enough. In her deep 

eyes 
A calm, still light, as in the gaze of one 
Whose hopes are set above all earthly things, 
Beyond or time or death unchangeably 
Fixed on eternity. The delicate cheek 
But faintly tinted with the quiet blood 
That yet sometimes played easily through it, 

coming 
And going swiftly ; her luxuriant hair, 
Like pale red gold, humbly bound back, and 

gathered 
Into a simple coil, yet not so close 
But that some willful locks had burst their fetters 



ANGELO. 13 

And now hung loosely quivering on her shoulders 

Beneath the dense, dark veil of finest web, 

Nevermore laid aside since the first days 

Of ceaseless sorrow. Her robe, too, was dark, 

Of some rich, sombre fabric, without sheen, 

That broke into deep shadows and dim lights, 

Where from her waist it flowed in heavy folds 

Down to the floor, concealing the light foot; — 

Confined upon her gently heaving bosom 

By one great, shimmering pearl, — a precious tear, 

So fancied Angelo. A plain gold circle. 

Her marriage ring, on her white, slender hand; 

An ivory rosary and crucifix, 

Carved richly, and emitting some fine fragrance 

Suspended from her girdle. 

Thus she sat 
Unconscious of the gaze that hung on her, 
But more and more enrapt, clung ever closer, 
Like to an eager bee upon some flower 
O'erflowing with sweet honey, thirstily 
Drank in each tint and line of beauty, rounded 
So marvelously to a perfect whole. 
Fed on each look, each breath ; till, when at last 
A pause had fallen in the gay converse round 

them, 
She turned to him again, — 



14 ANGELO. 

"And you, Maestro, 
Who have of all the first right to be heard, 
Will you not speak and teach us now ? " 

And. yielding 
At once to her all-powerful, gentle sway, 
Forgetting or unheeding his reserve 
And wonted silence, all his grim dislike 
To speak thus openly of things knit up 
As closely with his soul as God himself. 
That were that soul's own deepest life, melting 
In the one great desire to do her pleasure. 
He rose and stood among the rest, took up 
The tangled skein of their discourse, where they 
Half hopelessly had dropped it, and confirming 
The arguments of some, confounding others, — 
All drawing round him in respectful silence, — 
Soon made it a clear woof, feeling how, 'neath 
The mild light of that quiet eye, he warmed 
To so great, unaccustomed eloquence 
That he himself grew half amazed at his 
Own glowing words. 

She in her turn now, noting 
The rugged features, the keen, blazing eye, 
The form unbent, the rapid, strengthful motion, 
The hair still dark, scarce touched with threads 
of silver. 



ANGELO. 15 

All the unbroken vigor of his presence, — 
Gazed at him long in reverent admiration, 
And tender, grateful wonder ; marveling how 
Labor and time and much reverse of fortune, 
The weary years, whose weight had long bowed 

others 
To aged, feeble men, had left no trace 
Of weakness here, passed so most harmless, dealt 
So kindly by him, seeming but to carve 
More deeply and endurably the lines 
Upon that powerful brow, and knit more firmly 
The muscles of the elastic, iron frame. 
So stood he 'mid the others, as among 
The pliant, pale-green saplings of the wood, 
The sturdy oak, uprooted not, nor shaken 
By all the fiercest tempests that had tossed 
Its mighty crown. 

Once 'mid his speech he saw 
The low sun, creeping round, now touched her 

hair. 
Whose golden threads threw back the sister 

beams, 
With a mild glow, casting a radiant halo 
About her head, that shone with double brightness 
Against the dark face of the suffering Saviour 
On the great altarpiece. And Angelo 



l6 ANGELO. 

Cried in his soul, — **0 beauteous, pure and 

saintly, 
As e'er the Virgin Mother of the Lord!" 
While she, perceiving the too fiery glance. 
And blinded by the light, moved half aside. 
And drew her veil still closer, over e'en 
The last, small, gleaming lock, Angelo fancying 
The sunbeams all were vanished, and the shad- 
ows 
Swift deepening round them. 

When he paused at length 
She said, " I thank you from my heart. Maestro ! 
This was an hour, in truth, as full of profit 
As of delight to me, and surely herein 
I speak for all ! Now, as a further favor, 
Pray tell me if you think 't were easily done 
To build a chapel near here, on the brow 
Of this same hill, by the old portico 
Moss-grown and ivy-covered, whence 't is said 
The cruel Emperor looked down in triumph 
Upon the conflagration of the city. 
Where his own bloody hand had flung the fire 

brand. 
Woe and destruction. There would I erect 
A cloister, so the feet of pious women 
Might sanctify again the spot, so long 



ANGELO, ly 

Made desecrate by that unhallowed spirit; — 
What think you, Messer Angelo?" 

"I fancy 
It were not difficult, — the site well chosen, 
If memory serve me. But when we depart 
We may perchance pass by there, if so please 

you, 
And I then speak more fully." 

" Such desire 
Was in my heart," she answered. "You have 

guessed 
What I had ventured not to ask ! " 

" Madonna," 
Gravely and fervently he said, "you ever 
Need but command, I am your willing servant ! " 
And as she moved to rise, ere her slow maid 
Had passed around her chair, for the perform* 

ance 
Of her small duties here, he stooped and took 
The cushion from the floor, whereon her feet 
Had rested while she sat, she chiding him 
With a half timid smile, — "Nay, nay, Maestro, 
I must not thus be served by such as you ! " 

So the gay group broke up, and passed from out 
The chapel door, in knots of two and three, 



1 8 ANGELO, 

Engaged in lively converse as before, 
Some strolling at their ease near Angelo 
And the Marchesa, others towards the city, 
While slowly in the gold-flushed heavens above 
The tints of sunset paled, and purple twilight 
Crept over hill and dale. 

" Surely, Maestro, 
We meet again ere long ! Come to me soon ! " 
She said to him at parting. Then at last 
He took his leave, and bending o'er her hand. 
Yet venturing not to press it to his lips. 
He answered, " Aye, Madonna, surely soon ! " 
"In summer time I dwell not oft," she said, 
"Within the city, but a little way 
Beyond the hills there," pointing as she spoke, 
"In the old cloister Santa Margherita, 
And now return there for a few brief weeks, 
Although the summer is nigh over, but 
E'er gladly welcome such good friends as think 

not 
The way too far!" 

Beneath the quiet stars 
That one by one pierced glimmering through the 

skies, 
He took his silent path adown the hill 
Back to his solitary home, the workshop. 



ANGELO. 19 

Filled with a hundred images, creations 

Of his e'er-teeming, never-resting brain, 

In hundred forms and fashions. Some with scarce 

The first conception sketched in few rough lines, 

Others begun and well advanced, still others 

Awaiting but the last fine master-strokes 

Of his ne'er-failing chisel, — many traced 

On loosely scattered sheets, some fully rounded 

In soft, dark clay, a few carved boldly out 

In fine-grained marble. 

As his steps bent thither 
His thought was but of her whose smile that 

day 
Had to his eye appeared more mild and beau- 
teous 
Than the most radiant star that shone above 

him. 
Ah, how was 't possible her lord could ever 
Have left his fair young wife — aye, younger then, 
But surely scarce more fair — to join the wars. 
Following the banners of some foreign prince! 
Well, mayhap it had been not vain ambition 
And love of glory only, but the call 
Of duty, stern, inexorable duty, 
Merciless necessity ! And a great sigh 
Swelled Angelo's deep breast. The lord whom 
she 



20 ANGELO. 

Had loved with such a single-hearted passion, 

And wept with such heart-broken agony; 

Had mourned so many years, with never-flagging, 

Unwearying constancy, unto whose shade 

She still was faithful, to whose memory 

She sang those saddest, sweetest lays whose 

breath 
Bore through all lands the fame of her who craved 

not 
Or glory or applause; — and dwelling on 
Her golden hair, her eyes, her lips, her voice. 
The unconscious, gentle play of her white hands. 
On all the wondrous beauty of her presence, — 
And musing more and more upon her kindness 
And exquisite courtesy to him, — her greeting. 
How she rose eagerly and took his hand, 
And how 't was he alone she thus had hon- 
ored, — 
It seemed high honor in good truth, and grew 
Most dear delight to think on. And the Mas- 
ter, 
Who was a welcome guest in court and palace. 
Whose favor had been sued, whose friendship 

sought 
By prince and pope and king and cardinal, 
Yet whose proud heart, disdaining their high state 



ANGELO. 21 

And lesser worth, had never stirred nor flut- 
tered, 

Now felt all his whole soul within him thrilled 

By a new joy and pride. 

" Come to me soon ! " 

Had she not spoken thus to him at parting? 

But yet what called she soon? — to-day? to-mor- 
row? 

What might not be too soon for courtesy? 

To him it had not seemed too soon had he 

Returned to her this very hour! 

But when 

With the new morn his daily labor claimed 

All powers of thought, of head and hands once 
more, 

He, half ashamed — remembering his gray hair — 

Of the impatient ardor filled him, put 

Three days her image resolutely from him. 

But on the fourth, closing the workshop early. 

The heat of noon scarce past, he sallied forth 

From out the gates, his face and heart set to- 
wards 

The village just behind the hills, that held 

Blest Santa Margherita. 

Easily gained he 

Admittance here ; the stately portress drew 



22 ANGELO. 

The bolt with gentle salutation, bidding 

A sister, who that moment passed the door, 

Lead him through the cool, quiet corridors 

To the Marchesa's room. " 'T is scarce the hour 

yet 
When she receives her friends here, but I think 
Her task is well-nigh done, and you may enter." 
And the good nun withdrew. But, ere he 

knocked, 
Angelo paused a little on the threshold, 
Feeding his eyes upon the beauteous picture 
That met him through the open door. 

She sat 
Like a fair mother in her daughters' midst. 
Or like that other name for constancy, 
Penelope of old, thought Angelo, 
Her lord's dear image ever in her heart, 
Surrounded by young maidens, busily 
Plying their needles, and bent o'er their work, — 
Some fair enough, some plain, dark heads and 

light. 
All clad alike in simple, sober garb; 
Poor girls, whom the good women of the convent 
Brought up in charity, making them apt 
At many useful arts, to send them forth 
Into the world at last, where one, perchance, 



ANGELO. 23 

Might find a happy lot, a humble home, 
Another, mayhap, play for one brief hour. 
In the gay turmoil of that wicked world, 
A brilliant, dizzy part, then at the last 
To wander back, a broken-hearted woman, 
To the old cloister's sheltering arms. And while 
She taught their fingers nimbleness and skill. 
Wherewith to some time gain them honest bread, 
She, who sat with, them like a guardian angel. 
Nourished their souls with high and holy thought, 
Talking with them of God and hope of heaven, 
The Virgin and the Saviour; fortified 
Their young, hot, timid hearts with noble tales 
Of great heroic faith, and constant courage. 
Of steadfast, sore-tried virtue, triumphing 
O'er all temptation's evils. Now she was 
Relating in her low, melodious voice. 
To them that listened breathless, with their nee- 
dles 
Sometimes suspended idly for an instant, 
The story of St. Margaret, patroness 
Of their own cloister, who, but armed with her 
Sweet innocence, had vanquished the fell dragon. 
The teller's own hands busily employed 
Upon a rich and beauteous altar cloth. 
Whereon her skillful needle and her maid's 



24 ANGELO. 

Were deftly twining long, luxuriant garlands 
Of silken roses and white lilies, round 
A Holy Mother and her Blessed Babe, — 
Until she suddenly cut short her story 
And raised her eyes, as Angelo at length 
Tapped gently at the door. 

" Come in ! " she said, 
And as he entered, " Ah, Maestro, you ! " 
And rose to meet and greet him as before. 
" A thousand welcomes ! How most amiable 
And kind to come so soon ! Pray pardon me 
For but a moment more, and I have done 

here ! " 
And bidding him be seated by the window, 
Through which the air came cool and sweet, 

herself 
Returned among her maidens, — who, perceiving 
A stranger enter, had glanced swiftly up, 
And now sat, some with blushing cheeks, and 

eyes 
Bent meekly on their work again, a few 
Half coyly eying him through long, dark lashes, — 
Took up her needle yet once more, but left 
Her tale unfinished then. 

" So soon ! " she said, 
So soon ! — to her the days that parted them 



ANGELO. 25 

Had then flown fast enough, — the hours that 

were 
To him a weary time of endless waiting, 
Been counted not by her impatient heart! 
Aye, how unmoved she was, how calm, while yet 
His hand half shook from the warm clasp of 

hers ! — 
So soon, in truth ! — and peevishly repeating 
Her words to him, it seemed a sudden shadow 
Fell o'er the fleck of sunlight on the floor, 
A fretful discontent, a swift displeasure, 
A sense of wrath well-nigh with her, invading 
His turbulent soul, so finely strung and tem- 
pered. 
Oft but a faint breath jarred it. 

And he turned 
His darkened eyes from her who ever drew 

them. 
And suffered them to wander round the room, — 
A lofty chamber with a tinted ceiling. 
The walls lined everywhere with dark brown 

wood 
Preciously carved, and hung with many a treas- 
ure 
Of art and beauty. In one sacred corner 
The image of the Saviour on the Cross, 



26 ANGELO. 

And at its foot a cushion ; — here, past doubt, 
She made her daily prayers. Near it a shelf 
Filled with old, learned volumes, and a seat 
Whereon she rested sometimes, where lay now 
A lute and a small open book of music. 
Here, too, a great stained window, through whose 

panes 
Fell mellow tints upon the wall beyond, 
Save where, thrown widely open, it admitted 
The breeze and the white light, half checkered by 
The shadow of the climbing vine outside, 
And playing o'er the table. Here lay scattered 
Loose sheets of paper, some half filled with writ- 
ing, 
And letters, near her pen. Among them stood 
Three noble lilies in a tall, white glass 
Slender as their own stems, and a wide urn 
Of curious workmanship in fretted silver. 
Heaped with gold oranges and swelling bunches 
Of white and pale-red grapes, whose delicate sub- 
stance 
Let half the sunlight through. O'er all things 

spread 
The exquisite bloom, the charm ineffable, 
Lent by a woman's touch. And Angelo, 
Even as he fastened on her face again 



ANGELO. 27 

The gaze that could not long be absent thence, 
Sighed heavily once more. 

"Now, my good children 
Go for to-day ! Be diligent at work 
And earnest at your prayers, until to-morrow 
You come to me again ! " she said, and rose. 
And ere the girls took leave with a low cour- 
tesy, 
Each one drew near and pressed her timid lips 
Upon her outstretched hand, while Angelo, 
With a contracted brow and hungry eyes. 
Jealously watched them. 

But when they had gone, 
The maid too vanishing, left them alone, 
And now Vittoria, with her grave, sweet smile 
Turned back to him, and drew her chair near 

his; 
The gloomy frown unbent, all his ill temper, 
Already half dispelled, melted away. 
And when she said again, " In truth, Maestro, 
It was most kind in you to come to-day ! 
Know you that I have heard you sadly slan- 
dered ? 
Even by such friends as say they know you 

well. 
Who painted you to me as one who loves 



28 ANGELO, 

To dwell apart, withdrawn unto himself, 
And ever shunning company ; and now 
How pleasantly am I deceived ! " — he answered 
With a grim smile, "As one you 'd say. Ma- 
donna, 
Given to black, sullen moods and bursts of tem- 
per. 
Morose and fierce, — a most unamiable, 
Harsh, crabbed old fellow! Aye, I know such is 
The pretty name I go by! But, Madonna, 
Saw you e'er clouds, however dark, the sun 
Could gild not with his light?" 

So they sat long 
Conversing upon many things ; talked of 
His native city, of his youth, his art. 
Of the great statue in the public place. 
The marvelous tombs, the ceiling of the chapel, 
Where he in hundred images immortal 
Had painted the beginning and the end. 
The first creation and the last dread day 
Of this small, fleeting world. Of many of 
The godly monuments that should attest 
His heaven-born power e'en to the latest ages. 
Talked freely like old friends, without reserve, 
As though long years they 'd daily met, accus- 
tomed 



ANGELO. 29 

To read each other's hearts ; Angelo's soul 
Unfolding 'neath her influence benign, 
Opening its deepest life, revealing its 
Most secret thought to her, as never yet 
He had to other mortal, while Vittoria, 
With delicate womanly tact and modesty, 
Held back her own, stood half aloof in shadow. 
Save where in tender sympathy her spirit 
Reached forward to his own. 

Thus sped the hours 
Until the light waned, and a clear, soft bell 
Rang out above them. "It is vespers," said 

she, 
And bent her head as in mute prayer an instant 
A look of rapt devotion in her face. 
And as he gazed on her, she seemed to him 
The very spirit of that holy place. 
Aye, there was something of soft, tinted lights. 
Of solemn organ strains and sacred songs, 
In all her life and soul ! 

But as he moved not, 
When now the bell had ceased, and shortly after 
Sweet, distant voices rose upon the air, 
She said again, "The chanting has begun; 
I should be there, — come with me to the chapel ! " 
But he, arising, " No, I must away, — 



30 ANGELO. 

Pardon, Madonna, if I stayed too late, 
'T is a hard task to leave you ! " 

"Come again," 
She answered simply; "whensoe'er you please 
To do me honor, Master, you will ever 
Be dear and welcome to me." 

"When I please! 
Ah, I much fear you know not what you say. 
What you would bring upon yourself, Madonna, 
If I should take you at your word ! " And nigh 
Had added, — Then should I rest here forever. 
Stir from this spot no more while I have breath ! 
"How often and how soon," — forgetting all 
The sting that word had given, — "I '11 come 

again ! 
Yet thank you for your passing courtesy. 
But will you be alone? I like it not 
To find a court about you ! Friendship, even 
Like love, is but a jealous god, and I 
Am bold, Madonna, and exacting, claim 
All favors for myself ! " 

"Yes, near this hour, 
It is but rare that other friends are with me." 
"And if I, too, be good and diligent" — 
He asked, clasping the hand she put in his — 
"Until we meet again, will you grant me 
The same reward those maidens took?" 



ANGELO. 31 

And she 
Said, with her sweet, faint flush and smile, " You, 

Master, 
Are ever so most diligent, you may- 
All times take what reward you please!" 

So with 
His fervent lips pressed to her hand, he left her 
Without another word. 

He came again. 
Full soon and oft, as he had prophesied. 
Came every day at length, passing all freely 
Both in and out her dwelling when it pleased 

him, 
At morn, or noon, or eve; until the hour 
That brought him sight of her to feast on, grew 
The one bright, luminous point in all his day. 
However dark and toilsome all the rest, — 
The central sun round which his heart revolved, 
Reached forward to eagerly, as a blossom 
Turns to the light, waxing itself more radiant 
As so it turned ; until her blessed presence. 
Seemed more than bread, was as the wine of life 
Unto his thirsting soul, — a need so great 
That were it suddenly cut off, he fancied 
He surely must have perished. 



32 ANGELO. 

Her he found 
Ever the same, serene and kind and courteous, 
Sweet in that gentle dignity and peace 
That sat so well on her, and that no cloud 
Seemed to have power to dim or trouble more, 
Secure forever from earth's pangs and tempests 
His eye but rarely tracing a faint shade 
Of sadness on her brow. She gradually 
Warming to deeper confidence with him. 
Revealing him her heart in turn, perceiving 
His soul was aye an open book before her. 
He saw her oftenest clad in sombre robes 
Like that in which he first beheld her, some- 
times 
Varied by pearly gray or spotless white, 
Wherein she looked to his enraptured eye 
Like a sweet bride, — but like a bride of Heaven 
More than of earth ! was his swift, grievous 

thought, — 
And ever with the fine, dark veil dimming 
The lustre of her golden hair, shading 
The beauteous lines of head and face and throat, 
And with the rosary, yet now and then 
A cluster of fresh, fragrant violets, 
A golden-hearted lily, or pale rose 
Upon her bosom, Angelo e'er gazing 



ANGELO, 33 

With passionate, jealous yearning at the flowers 
Resting so near her heart. 

Thus passed the autumn, 
And melted into winter, till that greened 
And blossomed into spring again and summer, 
And that too vanished, and gave way once more 
To other autumn fading in its turn. 
Thus many seasons glided swiftly by, 
How many, Angelo told not. It seemed 
That he had known her from the world's begin- 
ning, 
How he had lived before, long years without her, 
Scarce comprehending now, time ever deepening 
The spell upon his soul j glided by swiftly. 
Amid a thousand schemes and giant labors, 
And daily visits to Vittoria, made 
Sometimes again in Santa Margherita, 
And sometimes in the chapel on the hill; 
More oft in her own dwelling in the city. 
Where, through the winter and the early spring, 
She dwelt, in easier reach, — although what road 
Had seemed too long, too hot and wearisome, 
So it but led to her! On those rare days. 
Dark ones to him and barren, when by some 
111 chance, some cruel circumstance unlooked for. 
Some overpress of work, he could not come. 



34 ANGELO, 

He sent her messages and letters, sometimes 
The breathing, burning words that in his soul 
When he dwelled far from her, fashioned them« 

selves 
Into melodious rhyme. She suffering gravely 
And silently, rejecting not, nor yet 
Fairly accepting, by a look or word. 
The homage, the deep, passionate devotion, 
He, careless of concealment, lavishly 
Poured at her feet, only refusing ever 
To read in the hot flame wherewith his eye 
Sometimes lit up, more than most ardent friend- 
ship. 
And once she wrote to him, "If you, my friend, 
Send me so many letters, pray do they 
Not make you tardy at your morning's work? 
Myself, I know, they more than once delayed 
From early mass, for when they come I cannot 
But stop and read." And he, bowing his head, 
Submissively received the gentle hint 
So delicately tempered by fine flattery, 
And wrote no more so often. 

He was -with her 
Late one long afternoon in early spring. 
While she yet tarried in her stately mansion. 
The day had been full warm, and the skies dark- 
ened 



ANGELO. 55 

With rain that fell not, only now, towards eve, 
A tardy sunshine lit the brightening heavens, 
A fresher breath stirred the reviving air. 
The windows of the chamber where they sat 
That overlooked the river in the distance, 
Were thrown wide open on the broad veranda. 
O'er whose checked marble floor there flickered 

now 
The timid shadows of the fresh, young leaves 
But just kissed into life by the warm sunbeams. 
And making green the stout old vine that wound 
Its arms about the pillars. The faint breeze 
That drifted by them wafted now and then 
To Angelo the odor of the violets 
Upon Vittoria's bosom. 

"Aye, Madonna," 
He said, breaking a pause, in moody tones, 
For not e'en she had power to exorcise, 
Always and wholly, the dark, haunting spirits 
That often swift and unaccountably 
Beset his soul, "As we advance in life. 
As we grow old, — and think how many years 
Have passed o'er this head! — full three-score 

and over, 
Sixty long winters ! — there steals on us some- 
times, 



36 ANGELO. 

A sense of waning power and weariness! 
Aye, one grows weary of all things at last, 
Unutterably weary unto death!" 
He cried more loud, flinging his arms aloft 
With a great, powerful gesture, that but ill 
Chimed in with his lamenting words : " Weary " — 
He went on fiercely, heeding not this time 
The gentle voice that would have interposed — 
" Of peace and storms, of triumph and defeat, 
Success and failure, praise and blame and glory. 
Labor and struggle and unceasing effort, 
Of all the fevered heart and brain conceive, 
Of strength itself and everlasting courage. 
Unnerved even for the very task itself — 
Oh, the most difficult task ! — of living, breathing, 
Moving our hands and feet! And looking back, 
It seems to me there is no day, no hour 
In all my past, wherein I battled not. 
Wrestled not fiercely with myself or others. 
With hostile fate and circumstance, — fought not 
My ground, hewed not my path, even inch by 

inch. 
Through thousand difficulties, pains, and perils. 
Bleeding at countless wounds ! My youth em- 
bittered 
By petty jealousies and enmities. 



ANGELO, 37 

Wranglings and scoffs of those that envied me 
What power God gave me, and what more I 

gained 
By hot, unceasing labor. In my manhood 
My country's fall and ruin and disgrace, 
My native town foully betrayed into 
Her cursed foe's red hand ! Oh, such a blow 
Is never quite lived down. It is a wound 
That rankles on forever, seems to sap 
The very root of life!" And a great anguish 
Rang in his deep-toned voice. 

"Nay, friend," she said, 
When now he paused, " if the good God, who has 
Exalted you above so many thousands, — 
And does not all our fair, wide land, not only 
The noble city of your birth, claim you 
For her great son, her joy and pride ! — saw fit 
To send you sharper pangs than to us others, 
'T is for He made you greater than us all. 
Cast your soul in some higher, godlier mould 
Than that wherein he fashioned other mortals I 
And surely for all bitterness you speak of. 
There has been sweetness also, in your life, 
And bliss diviner than was ever given 
To us poor children of the earth to know. 
You have scaled heights where our more feeble 

feet 



38 ANGELO, 

Can follow not, drunk deep of ecstasies 
We scarce have tasted. In your giant spirit 
Both pain and joy alike tower far above 
The measure of our common understanding, 
To heights that make the curse, perchance, and 

yet 
The greatness of your life, — nay, but which are 
That very life itself! And in those hours 
Of weariness," she said again, when he 
Made yet no answer to her words, — " my friend, 
Believe they come to all of us ! — can you 
Not think of Him, our shining, great example 
In patience and long-suffering, — Him who toiled 
Bowed 'neath the aching burden of His cross 
Up the steep hill, and fainted by the road-side, 
To ever rise again, and yet toil onward 
Until the top was gained ? " 

He still stood silent 
And doubtful if he heard her, with his brow 
Bent frowning on the ground in gloomy revery. 
She gently laid her hand upon his arm 
Now hanging listlessly. 

That touch aroused him. 
And turning on her eyes still sullen, yet 
In softer tone, he said, "Ah, but forgive me, 
Vittoria! You who bear so generously 



ANGELO. 39 

With all my churlish moods and freaks, — so 

foreign 
To what your even life, your soul serene 
Have ever known, you scarce may comprehend 

them ! 
Wherefore talk I to you of age ! On you 
Time left no scars ! " 

"Nay, you forget, Maestro," — 
Half smiling as she spoke, too glad to lead him 
From .the dark depths back to more shallow 

waters, — 
" I, too, have seen full two-score years and over ! " 
" But they were sunny summers ! " 

"Nay, my friend," — 
And all her smile had vanished, — " my life, too. 
Has known its chilly winters and fierce storms ! " 
She paused an instant, then, — " And what you 

say 
Of that still sense of waning strength, — though 

surely 
The power of your green years is still unbroken. 
You will make glad the world with many more 
Immortal works ! — that sense we women own 
In the perception that with time there fades. 
Though we would bid it stay, all that in young 

days 
Once made us fair, perchance ! " 



40 ANGELO. 

"Your passing beauties" — 
He answered ; and from out the eyes resting 
Upon her with a dreamy gaze all darkness 
Melted away, until they well-nigh smiled — 
"Heaven is but gradually and one by one 
Recalling to Himself, to clothe therewith 
Some other human soul, so they may not 
Be wholly lost to this sad earth. Even as 
He gathers up my sighs and prayers and tears 
To give to him who then shall worship her 
As I do you, and happier far than I, 
Have power, mayhap, with all the pains endured, 
To move her heart, as I could ne'er move 
yours ! " 

Her eye fell, but she answered not. And he, 
After a moment's silence, sighing heavily, 
Thrown back on his old thoughts, all the black 

shadows 
Deepening once more about him, said again,— 
"Aye, there is not a year whose memory hangs 

not 
Like a dead weight upon my soul ! But yet 
Our sense grows callous, too, and dulled; and 

thus 
The edge is taken off all things, darkness 



ANGELO. 41 

And light alike ! Our heart's most generous 

fires 
Languish and die ; our soaring thought falls flat j 
Hope turns to vain despair and joy to anguish; 
Fond dreams and prayers melt into empty air; 
Yearning consumes itself, eats its own heart; 
The tenderest chords are rudely jarred and 

broken 
So many countless, maddening times, at last 
The sickened soul, — for it is here " (striking 
His hand upon his heart) "that we are pierced 
Unto the life ! — chilled and repulsed so often, 
Rolled back to feed upon itself alone, 
That rushed out joyful to embrace the world, — 
Stabbed by a thousand disappointments, pricked by 
Unnumbered smarting stings and needle-points, 
Starved into grim indifference, its own self 
Grows cold and hard, learns to accept unques- 
tioning 
The bitter stone of resignation for 
Its natural, daily bread, — scarce ventures more 
To spread poor, stunted wings, that life has 

clipped 
So closely that they bleed, wherewith to flutter 
Even towards the smallest hope ! And yet some 
things," 



42 ANGELO. 

He fiercely cried, and clinched his hands to- 
gether, 
With one consuming, flaming glance at her, — 
" Some hopes we cannot, will not, yield e'en then, 
Surrender not life itself! — it seems 
That we must wrest from Fate, and be it from 
Her deepest, merciless heart ! " 

The swift faint flush 
That kindled 'neath his eye, and slowly spread 
O'er brow and cheek and neck, showed him how 

well 
She understood, but yet she said full calmly, 
"From Fate, perchance, my friend, but not from 

God! 
In those old, far-oif days, when even as now 
God dwelt beyond the stars, but for some cause 
Inscrutable unto our feeble sight 
Had never made his presence manifest. 
Revealed Himself to men, — the days when gods 
Lived on Olympus, and below here peopled 
The woods and rivers, mingling freely in 
The human joys and sorrows of the mortals 
From out whose brain they sprang, — then men 

perchance. 
Might talk of Fate and wresting from her grasp 
What she denied. But, Angelo, for us 



ANGELO. 43 

Who are so favored by his signal mercy, 
Us who have looked upon the face of God, 
It is not thus to speak ! " 

"The face of God, 
The face of God ! " he muttered. " Aye, but e'en 
The face of God itself is dimmed and blurred 
By all the tears and clouds and blinding smoke 
Of petty earth-fires, rolled 'twixt us and it. 
Till in the troubled currents of our lives 
Our groping sight half loses it, — all radiance 
Is well-nigh blotted out!" 

But she this time 
Scarce heard the murmured words, for she had 

risen. 
And passing to the chamber's other end 
Took from a casket, curiously inlaid. 
Some leaves of paper; then returning, asked, 
" Pray, Angelo, would you have patience now 
To listen to such lines as I last wrote. 
Lend me your ear and mind a little, kindly 
Give me your judgment ? They have not been 

heard yet 
By other friends ! " 

And reading in his eye 
His too glad willingness, even had he not. 
Suddenly subdued, cried out, " Ah, yes, Madonna, 



44 ANGELO, 

How can you question, 'tis a joy and honor!" 
She bidding him sit near her, read to him. 

Read in her low, clear voice that quivered not, 
A lay of love and praise, a plaint of pain 
For the departed, at whose tomb her soul 
Kept ceaseless watch, and all her heart's affec- 
tions 
Burned like a lamp eternal, night and day, — 
A passionate outpouring of the founts 
Of deepest tenderness and grief, in words 
So full of music, on her lips they seemed 
Soft as the murmur of that shady brook. 
Sad as the warble of that nightingale, 
Sweet as the breath of that fair, sun-kissed rose 
Whereof she sang, and yet wherefrom all glory 
Had parted with his vanishing. A song 
Through all whose tearful sadness there yet shone 
A mild, unshaken star, the faith sublime 
That ever pointed upward, a great trust 
In Him who doeth all things well. 

"My friend. 
What say you ? " she asked, gently, after ending. 
As he sat long in silence. 

"O Vittoria, 
What would you have me say I " he cried. " It is 



ANGELO. 45 

The sweetest strain ever made glad these ears, 
And the most bitter ever pierced this soul ! 
But would I, too, had faith like yours ! Yet for 
You women, who ne'er mingle as we must 
In the fierce conflicts of the evil world, 
Whose souls are of more even, peaceful temper, 
'T is easy to have faith ! " 

"Think you in truth, 
It was so easy ever ? " And in her 
Deep earnestness she laid unconsciously 
Her hand on his once more, and though his own 
Hungered to clasp it round and hold it close. 
Fearful she might withdraw it, he moved not 
A finger, ventured scarce to breathe. 

"Believe you. 
The rock of faith, where now I trust my soul 
Has built her mansion indestructible. 
Was gained without much weary toil, without 
Much difficult ascent, and bleeding feet? 
The calm that you perchance see with me now 
Was never rent by tempests, — was not found 
Beyond most troubled, storm -tossed seas? O 

friend. 
Then have you read my heart but ill!" 

And slowly 
Drawing her hand away and leaning back 



4.6 ANGELO, 

With a deep sigh, her eyes gazing far off 
Into some dreamy distance now, her soul 
Borne on the current of her own sweet song 
Back to the bright shores of the golden past, 
She said again, — 

" Our parents had betrothed us 
In early infancy, but as he grew 
To man*s estate, and I to womanhood. 
Our hearts confirming the long bond, knew well 
Of all the wide world we could ne'er have loved 
But one another; and in the fresh springtime 
Of both our lives — only our love had turned 
E'en latest days to spring — we two were wed. 
Oh, have you ever loved, in youthful years," — 
And nigh forgetting who it was that heard her 
There quivered in her rising voice a thrill 
Of deepest passion, — " in glad, youthful years, 
When joy and hope were young and fair and 

radiant, 
When the swift blood bounded through every vein, 
Each breath, each pulse of eager, throbbing life, 
Was sweetest bliss, unspeakable delight. 
All the earth flooded, as your heart, with sun- 
shine, — 
Oh, loved you ever, with each glowing sense, 
Each burning fibre of your soul?" — 



ANGELO. 47 

"Madonna!" 
He cried out suddenly ; as one in anguish, 
Whose lips will keep the stifled groan no longer. 
That must burst forth at last, — " Madonna, spare 

me!" 
And laid one trembling hand upon her chair, 
For with her face turned from him, she had not 
Perceived how as she spoke his spirit struggled 
With a great, dark despair, that all in vain 
The working brow strove to conceal, and now 
But swiftly glancing round, she said more calmly, 
"Forgive me, Angelo! I would but pray you 
Remember all the passion of your youth, 
If you would know what was our love ! " And 

then, 
Her voice soon sinking to its wonted peace, 
Went on, — 

" The first few blissful years we dwelt 
Upon a beauteous island in the sea, 
Near that blue, smiling bay and dark volcano, 
So famed among the glories of our land. 
The untold happiness of all our days 
Undimmed by any faintest shadow, save 
That Heaven pleased not to hear our ardent 

prayers 
To grant us a sweet child. Then came the day 



48 ANGELO. 

When called on by the prince — a stranger, too, 
Yet who espoused our much - loved country's 

cause — 
To join his arms against the foreign foe 
Whose desecrating hands were laying waste 
Our blooming fields : he went from me, and I, 
What though the souls of both of us were wrung 
At parting thus, perceiving his high duty 
And mine full clearly, sought not to detain him, 
But rather cheered him on. 

"And years succeeded, 
Long years when he dwelt far from me, but 

rarely. 
And for but few, sweet days returning home, 
When oft my lonely, anxious nights were spent 
In tearful prayer, beseeching Heaven to spare 

him. 
Preserve him safe 'mid all the thousand perils 
That ever hedged him round. And then the 

hour 
That brought me news of a great battle fought. 
And from himself the message he was wounded 
Unto the death, he feared, and bid me haste 
To come to him in the great city north 
Where he had halted. With my breathless soul 
Hung trembling, thrilled by hope and doubt and 

fear, 



ANGELO. 49 

I flew to him, pausing nor night, nor day. 
Could I have called the lightnings or the storm- 
winds 
To serve and bear me on, they yet had been 
Too slow for my impatience. But half way 
A messenger in mourning met me, saying 
It was too late, — that he had died, my name 
The last sigh on his lips. Ah, Angelo, 
If hearts could break in one great agony, 
Then mine had burst as I hung over him, 
In wild despair clung to the lifeless form 
That could no longer answer, hear no more 
All the sweet names I called him with mad 

tears, — 
The sinful heart which in that hour rose up 
In rank rebellion against God, and His 
Most wise and just and merciful decrees. 

"How I survived I know not. For long years, 

Broken in spirit, dead to every hope, 

I dwelt within a cloister, half resolved 

To take the veil, and while I lived to leave 

Those sheltering walls no more : till, searching 

closely, 
With anxious care and scrutiny, my heart, 
I found it not yet fitted for such high 



50 ANGELO. 

And saintly state, my soul not perfectly 
Surrendered unto God alone, not wholly 
Won from all joys and beauties of the earth; 
Till time had laid her soothing, healing hand 
Upon the quivering wound and closed it ; till 
The dawn broke slowly, when my Saviour shed 
The light of His blessed countenance divine 
Into my darkened soul, with passing mercy, 
Till I knew joy again, and peace eternal. 
When I found Him ! " 

And with a rapid motion, 
Wherein, unknown to her, leaped forth once 

more 
The smouldering fire and fervor of her soul, 
She clasped the rosary and kissed the cross, 
With passionate, clinging lips. 

Oh for one instant 
To be that carved, unconscious image there ! 
Was the wild wish that flashed through Angelo's 
Hot, jealous heart. And then the afterthought, — 
Oh what a mad, vain, and presumptuous fool 
Were he who would bear home this holy life, 
That like a steady, upward-spiring torch. 
Burns at the altar of the Most High God, 
To be the fire on his domestic hearth ! — 
Impossible conceit! 



ANGELO. 5 1 

And swift regretful 
Of his irreverence, bowing his head 
Upon the hand he gently took in his, 
And that resisted not, now drooping idly 
Upon her lap, the other one brief moment 
Covering his eyes, he said, — and now his voice 
Was low and deep, — 

" I thank you ! O Vittoria, 
Who did in truth win an immortal victory, 
Who triumphed over life, and conquered death. 
Teach me such faith as yours ! The trust sub- 
lime 
That is as oil upon the troubled waters ! 
Aye, I have hungered, thirsted, blindly wrestled 
For peace like yours full many a day in vain. 
In the dark hours when all the maddening spec- 
tres 
Of the sore past arise, when I remember 
All I have suffered and shall suffer yet. 
The slumbering poison in the blood awakes, 
My stubborn heart groans 'neath its galling bur- 
den. 
Forgets, denies its God ! I stand before you 
Loaded with years, and bowed with weight of 

sin. 
The taint of many ills upon my soul! 



52 ANGELO. 

You see me a repentant sinner! Take me, 
And mould and fashion all my heart anew. 
Reject me not! let me be your disciple, 
Help me, guide me. Madonna ! Show my feet, 
That plod through stony valleys filled with shad- 
ows, 
To scale the sunny heights yours long have 

gained ; 
From you I could accept and learn, methinks, 
That which naught else beneath God's far-off 

heavens 
Could ever teach me!" 

She drew softly from him 
The hand that rested in his clasp till now. 
And for one instant, as though blessing him. 
Laid her white fingers, lightly as a breath, — 
And yet the touch thrilled through his veins like 

fire, — 
Upon his brow, uplifted to her face 
With a new fervor radiant in his eyes; — 
Then, a faint tremor in her voice, she said, 
"I will endeavor, Angelo! What help 
My feeble power, what help a fellow mortal 
Can give you, shall be yours with all my soul. 
But, friend, salvation such as this, through slow 
And painful travail mayhap, is yet born 



ANGELO, 53 

From our own deepest consciousness alone. 
And that within your inmost heart there lives 
Even now a faith like that whereof you speak, 
Strong, great, unquenchable, I am well sure. 
Nay, Angelo, shake not your head ! I know it ! 
He who was blessed with such high, godly gifts 
As unto you were granted, surely bows 
With every breath he draws, mutely before 
The Power who gave them, every hour of life 
Acknowledges, if half unconsciously. 
The Godhead, the last, absolute Perfection, 
That never failing feeds his inspiration. 
Whereof each aspiration of his soul 
Is but a part, — the soul that dwells forever 
Close to the heart of God! Pray draw me some 

time 
An image of the Lord ! — Christ the Redeemer 
Upon the tree suffering His earthly anguish, 
And in those godly features let me read 
My fond conviction true ! Will you, my friend ? " 

" Perchance, Madonna ! Aye, some time, I will. 
Some time, — but I may say not, know not 

when ! " 
He murmured, stooping to pick up a violet 
Had slipped from out her bosom to his feet. 



54 ANGELO. 

And so, her hand pressed to his lips and heart, 
They parted for the day. 

The next and next 
For three long days, the sultry air yet brooded 
Heavy with undue heat above the earth, 
Till that nigh groaned. Fierce summer, it ap- 
peared. 
Had leaped with one bold bound into his throne, 
Ere yet his time was come. The fiery sun 
Sent scorching arrows down from blazing skies, 
Till the o'ercharged, hot heart of heaven at 

length 
Burst in a gush of tears, and the wild rain 
Swept down in wind-lashed torrents. For long 

hours 
The tempest shook and tossed and madly fretted 
The trembling, bending shrubs and sighing trees, 
Flowering in the first tender green of spring. 
And loudly piping drove against the panes. 
Then fell a pause, too swift and suddenly 
To long endure: and still dark, fitful clouds 
Flew shifting through the murky skies; but in 
That momentary hush came Angelo. 
Yet to his soul, wherefrom she fondly fancied 
The shadows for a little time had fled, 



ANGELO. 55 

The breaking storm, that seemed to roll a weight 
From every heart, had brought no calm. Vit- 

toria 
Well knew it at the first swift glance, long 

skilled 
In reading on that face each faintest shade. 
He would not seat himself, but moved about 
Uneasily here and there, said naught, and made 
But short and broken answers to such questions 
As she in all her wonted grave, sweet manner 
Would ask from time to time. Until at length, 
Wearied with such bleak converse, and perchance 
Catching from him some spirit of unrest. 
She said, " Methinks 't is warm here and oppress- 
ive ! " 
And rising threw the window widely open. 
"Ah yes," as she gazed up into the skies, 
" The storm is not yet over, — heaven not yet 
Has emptied all his floods ! there in the east 
Another tempest brews, but till it burst 
Come, Angelo, let us out here upon 
The balcony; the air is cool and pleasant 
After the rain. But oh, how it has raged ! " 
For all the floor lay strewn with bright young 

leaves 
The merciless wind had torn from off their vine 
And scattered there. 



56 ANGELO. 

Mutely he followed her, 
And while she sat where she could see the river, 
Half veiled in vapory mist, he with his arms 
Crossed on his breast, stood by in moody silence 
Leaning against the pillar nearest her. 
At length, bending upon her strange, dark eyes, 
Whose meaning this time she could fathom not, 
He said, in husky tones, once more resuming 
Their last discourse, as though no space divided 
That hour from this, — 

"And 'tis the sorest ill 
That years and suffering on our souls inflict. 
That they rob conscious life of all delight. 
Existence of all rapture, — that the thrill 
Of ecstacy must perish. Oh, how shortlived 
That golden dream of early youth and childhood, 
Which sees the earth in thousand rainbow tints, 
A shimmering, witching, wondrous fairy-land. 
Where all things great and fair are possible. 
Spread in its charmed sight ! How soon it fades 
Into dim distance hopelessly, that naught. 
No yearning and no tearful turning back. 
Can e'er bring back again, — the spell is broken 
The bright enchantment fled! How soon we 

learn 
How cold and bleak and barren is the world, 



ANGELO. 57 

How stripped of all sweet bloom and tender 

grace, 
How filled with chill, hard, merciless facts alone, 
'Gainst which we strike our feet and break our 

hearts 
At every step; whereon each fond delusion 
Is shivered like a bauble on a stone; 
A dreary waste where naught is possible 
Of great and fair, save what ourselves achieve 
With aching strain of every nerve and fibre I " 

He scarcely paused, then said again, his breast 
Heaved with swift-flying breath, his voice, sub- 
dued first. 
Swelled gradually with deep and deeper pas- 
sion, — 
" But one thing can restore the broken spell, 
A tardy recompense in later years 
For all lost ecstasies, — and when we find it, 
Shall we not love it, strain it to our hearts, 
Our bleeding hearts, to hold it there forever, 
A joy eternal, — plant the shining lily 
In our poor patch of withered desert land ? 
Madonna ! " cried he, while she gazed at him, 
A shade of anxious, deepening trouble darkening 
Her quiet eyes, — "Madonna, you are she. 



58 ANGELO. 

Who in the wintry autumn of my years, 
Now, at the hour when other men look forward 
But to the grave, have burst on my dark life 
A starry, singing, flowering spring, — brought 

back 
My youth to me and gladness, nay, a youth 
More joyous than I ever knew! — beneath 
Whose magic touch the sunken fairy-land 
Arose once more in all its ancient splendor ! 
Aye, life is beautiful and earth is fair. 
Lies bathed in golden sunlight at my feet. 
Since I knew you, loved you ! Nay, suffer me 
To tell you so but once ! " he fiercely pleaded, 
As she rose swiftly up and stood before him 
One trembling hand outstretched and face averted. 
" But once to speak in words what yet no words 
Can ever tell, but what has surely long 
Been known to you from thousand silent signs, 
And more than once well - nigh o'erflowed in 

words ! 
Nay, I will speak ! *' he cried, as her lips moved 
" For once relieve this bursting heart of what 
Was here locked up so long " — striking his 

breast 
With his clinched hand — *'that it has grown a 

galling, 



ANGELO. 59 

Intolerable burden! I must speak 
This once at every cost, and you must hear me, 
Though you should banish me from out your sight 
Forever after this ! I know my cause 
Is hopeless, hopeless as though I should stretch 
These hungry arms to clasp the sun above us ! " 
And yet, perceiving her lips blanched and quiv- 
ering. 
He suddenly asked, his voice like a great cry, 
"Yet is it utterly without all hope, 
Madonna, is it so ? " 

And now, but for 
She threw out both her hands to hinder him, — 
Hands she felt seized, covered with burning 

kisses, — 
He would have bent a knee. 

" Nay, Angelo ! — 
Nay, for the love of God, I do conjure, 
I pray, I do beseech you ! — hush ! — no more ! " 
She whispered breathless over him. "And look, 
We are no more alone ! " — glancing to where 
Marietta stood within the open window. 
Her little maid, holding her lute, who not 
Suspecting aught, had entered noiselessly 
To seek her mistress, but perceiving now 
Her lady's eyes on her, turned swiftly back, 



6o ANGELO. 

And would have gone, but that she called to her 
" Nay, come, my child ! Stay, I have need of 
you ! " 

" Pardon ; I fancied you alone, Madonna ! " 
She said, advancing shyly. And Vittoria, 
Now fully facing her, with lips still white, 
But firm, clear voice, "No, Messer Angelo 
You see is with me. Messer Angelo, 
Who just as you came in saw a black wasp 
Alighting near my foot, and so stooped down 
To kindly free me from it ! " 

He had turned. 
And like a sullen lion kept at bay. 
Resolved in stubborn fierceness not to yield. 
But hold his ground before such petty foe, — 
Retreated to the pillar, where he leaned. 
His arms thrown backward closely clasping it, 
His head bowed low upon his breast. A martyr 
Bound to his torturing stake ! was the swift image 
Passed through Vittoria's soul, as hastily once 
She glanced at him. Surely no martyr's face. 
Who saw the cruel flames creep close and closer 
Was ever darker and more rent with anguish 
Than his knit, stormful brow, his stern-set lips, 
His shadowed, burning eyes, so fierce, it seemed 



ANGELO, 6 1 

That lurid lightnings brooded in their depths, 
As fitfully they darted o'er the forms 
Of the two women near him. 

"Did you come 
To sing to me, my child ? " Vittoria asked. 
" You have your lute, I see. Ah, that is well ! 
I shall be most content to listen now 
To some sweet strain. And Messer Angelo 
Will surely pardon, if it please him not ! " 

" Yes, I would sing you the last song, Madonna, 
They sent me from my country, my sweet France ; 
They sing it there at court. I have just learned 

it, 
And fancy it will please you." 

And not waiting 
For more than a mute sign, while her bright 

eyes. 
Lit with a glance of swift intelligence, 
Glided o'er both, she touched her lute and sang : — 

"Nay! pray the gods, my friend, 
They never 'twixt us send 
The lurid flame of love. 
The flaring, restless fire 
Of passionate desire 
That brings but tears and pain! 



62 ANGELO. 

Grant we may e'er remain 

In this calm, golden sunshine of the heart, 

Content to meet or part, 

As the glad day and kindly fate ordain ! 

"For wherefore wed, my friend, 
When now our two lives blend 
So full and perfectly? 
Perchance, yet closer bound, 
Souls that together sound 
Now so harmoniously, 
Jarred and discordant grew, 
Each other's company, 
Sweet now and ever new, 
Tasted unceasingly. 
Stale as a twice-told tale ! 

•' I counted it not gain. 
But rather grievous loss and bitter pain. 
Friendship's dear joys were done, 
And love's delights begun; 
A true friend lost me and a lover won! 
Nay, I do swear to thee, 
As God loves thee and me. 
'T were thousand pities and must never be ! '* 

Vittoria had drawn from him, and so turned 
That Angelo scarce saw her outlined face, 
Closing her eyes as she lay back to listen, 



ANGELO. 63 

The delicate color slowly surging back 
To pallid lips and cheek, though still Marietta, 
Seated upon a low stool near her feet, 
Thought, even 'mid her singing, never yet 
Had been her lady's face so lily white. 
And while she sat and heard, her ear and fancy 
Touched lightly by the careless words, that set 
Deftly to some sweet tune, rippled and skipped 
From off Marietta's pretty lips, like to 
The warbling of a bright-hued bird, something 
Like a half smile hovered for one brief instant 
About her lips, to find how strangely well 
The airy song chimed with the heavy mood 
That stifling hung upon their souls, how deeply, 
Though but with shallow, earthly chords, struck in 
With the most subtle strings, the finest fibres. 
So painfully vibrating this dark hour 
Faint like a shadow as the smile had been. 
His jealous eye had seen it, and but ill 
Catching the meaning of the foreign tongue, 
He grimly asked, " You smile ! what say those 

words ? " 
" A sparkling, gay French song," — she answered. 

turning 
Her head half towards him, but their eyes met 



64 ANGELO. 

" Of friends, who would not wed ! " — then to 

Marietta, 
"A pleasing, pretty thing, in truth, my child, 
And you have learned it well, and sung it sweet- 

ly.- 

Kind thanks for all your pains ! " 

But Angelo, 
Who had drawn swiftly near, now bending o'er 

her, 
Whispered in fevered breath close to her ear, — 
"A vile French song this hour, and you can 

smile ! 
You see me perish in your sight and smile ! " 
Then violently broke and vanished 
Ere she could turn to him. 

She made no sign 
By word or look, to hold or call him back. 
But with a heavy sigh clasped both her hands 
Before her face, and thus sat motionless 
And silent long. All an eternity. 
Marietta thought, who stayed, yet ventured not 
To breathe a word. And looking up at length 
She found her little maid's eyes fixed on her 
With troubled gaze. " How ! you still here, my 

child?" 
She said all gently, yet her voice was strange, — 



ANGELO. 65 

Then, with a motion of her hand, " Go, now ; 
Leave me, my daughter, I would be alone ! " 
And gathering up her lute, giving no utterance 
To the swift question rising to her lips. 
If there were aught that she could do. Marietta 
Obeyed her lady's bidding. 

He was gone, — 
His face, his voice, his eyes no longer there ; 
But yet it seemed as though his unseen presence, 
His passionate soul, burst from its earthly fet- 
ters. 
Still lingered, hovered near, clung close to her, 
As though, departing, he had left behind him 
All his own fitful, feverish, wild unrest. 
His kisses on her hand burned on and on. 
What though again and yet again she clasped 
Each with the other, that was chill as death. 
Till a fine stream of sharp, consuming fire 
Coursed through each vein, her quiet pulses flew, 
A great, unwonted tumult stirred and lashed 
All the calm, even currents of her blood 
Into a whirling storm. 

With swift impatience 
She rose and pushed her chair away, and hastily 
Strode long time up and down the wide veranda, 
How long she knew not, with untiring steps, — 



66 ANQELO. 

Her veil e'er following her like a dark mist, 
Until she caught and held it fast about her, — 
Until at length, wearied but yet uncalmed. 
She sank into her seat once more. 

Sat there 
Alone upon the darkening balcony, 
Her throbbing head supported on her hand, 
Heedless of, seeing not, the lurid sunset 
That for an instant shed its glory round her. 
The dim, swift, deepening twilight, and the 

shades 
Of the wild night, that fell, — till a pale moon 
That struggled painfully through flying clouds, 
Poured out a feeble light upon the floor. 
Oft dimmed and swallowed by black shadows ; 

felt not 
The chilly breath of the damp wind, that drove 
The coming storm invisibly before him, — 
Felt naught, nor heard, nor saw, her inward 

gaze 
Intently searching her own soul. 

Was it 
Then possible, oh, possible, my God! — 
That she might yield to his mad prayers.? His 

words, 
"Yet is it utterly without all hope?" 



ANGELO. 67 

Rung ever in her ears, and she remembered 
With what intense, fond, clinging sympathy, 
What deep affection, all her being oft 
Yearned towards his lonely greatness. Was this 

passion ? 
Could this be a new love, that unawares 
Had crept thus stealthily into her heart? 
And was she growing faithless to his image, 
The one great master love of all her life, 
Him, whose blest shadow still, — and at the 

fancy 
The temple of her inmost spirit shook 
And rocked in its foundations. 

"O my God, 
My God ! " she murmured, and sprang up again, 
Wringing her hands, " of what avail to rack 
The feeble brain with torturing thought! What 

comfort, 
What balm was ever found, save but with Thee ! " 
And so flew back into the room, and, kneeling, 
Sank at the foot of the great crucifix. 
" Madonna, O Madonna, sainted Virgin ! " — 
Was the hot prayer that burst from out her 

soul, — 
" Oh, if I ever strayed or swerved from thee, 
Forgot thy perfect service for an hour, 



68 ANGELO. 

I do beseech thee, grant me pardon now ! 
Oh, by all anguish and all ecstacies,, 
The sweetness and the passing bitterness, 
That thou hast known, a thousand times more 

great 
Than any that could pierce this petty heart; 
By all the holy joys of motherhood, 
To me denied, — thy Blessed Babe's sweet smiles, 
That thou couldst gather to thy happy bosom, 
To serve for sunshine on the darkest path ; 
By the fierce sword that rent thy travailing soul 
Beneath the cross, — look down in mercy on 
My agony, help thou my wrestling spirit, 
Here at the feet of Thy Beloved Son, — 
Thou who a woman, knowst a woman's heart, 
Free me from this most cruel doubt!" 

Long after 
Marietta, who had once or twice before, 
Bearing her lady's slender evening meal, 
Tapped at the door without receiving answer, 
Now venturing to peep in, by the dim moon- 
light 
Beheld her thus, kneeling in deepest prayer, 
Her face turned upward to the cross, her hands 
Clasped tightly on her bosom, — and drew back 
Noiselessly as she came. And later still, 



ANGELO. 69 

Once more stole softly to the room to see 

If now perchance her lady needed her; 

But starting, found her sunken with her face 

Close to the ground one arm thrown out from 

her 
As reaching after something far away, 
The other pillowing her head, from which 
The golden hair, half-loosed, streamed over her 
In faintly gleaming waves. She lay so still 
Marietta anxiously had nigh sprung forward 
To lend her aid, but that just then she stirred. 
And a low moan broke from her lips, — the 

words, 
" O my Beloved ! turn thy face not from me ! " 
So once again the little maid slipped out. 
To come no more that night, her delicate eye- 
brows 
Drawn up in mute amazement, as she shook 
Her sage young head, thinking of all the mis- 
chief 
That poor black wasp had made ! 

The hours moved on 
While thus Vittoria lay, sleepless, but yet 
Unconscious of all sights and sounds about her. 
She knew not that the moaning wind outside 
Rose high and higher, — now burst the casement 
open, 



70 ANGELO. 

Then flung it loudly shut ; that the last ray 
Of sickly moonlight died, leaving the room 
In utter darkness, that full soon was rent 
By flashes of blue light, which seemed to fill 
The fitful heavens as with one sheet of flame, 
The crashing thunder rolling at its heels ; 
How later in the night the approaching tempest, 
Which had but paused so long gathering new 

power, 
Burst with redoubled fury, sighed and wailed. 
In whistling gusts of gushing, drenching rain, 
For a brief, frenzied hour. How that too 

passed. 
The wind fell, the clouds parted, and at length 
The undimmed stars shone out; knew but she 

heard 
A long familiar, much beloved voice 
Say to the troubled waters, " Peace, be still ! " 
And saw that they obeyed, and slowly felt 
The sweetness of a calm ineffable 
Descending on her soul. 

When she looked up 
The nightly stars had paled, the morning broke. 
A new, glad dawn flushed all the cloudless 

heavens. 
She rose, and by a slender chain drew forth 



ANGELO. 71 

The image of her loved one from her bosom, 

And by the early, swiftly growing light 

Looked on his face; and as there rose before 

her 
The noble form whereon so oft her eyes 
Had fed in passionate joy, she knew her heart 
Had never faltered in its constancy 
E'en for an hour. All her great love welled up, 
Shook every fibre of her heart, surged like 
A swelling tidal wave through every vein. 
Sent the warm life-blood flushing down into 
The very hands that, trembling, held the picture, 
Till all her thrilling soul o'erflowed, glowing 
With ecstasy, new, yet so all familiar, 
Till she let fall the crucifix one hand 
Had clasped till now, and pressed in breathless 

rapture 
That other image to her lips and heart. 
Whispering again and yet again, " Francesco ! " 

"Oh, what a strange, wild, fearful fever-dream 
Was all this long, long night ! " she sighing 

thought, 
Covering her burning eyes with both her hands 
And in the golden morning light at length 
Sought tardy slumber on her couch. 



72 ANGELO, 

Marietta 
Who, when the sun already hung full high, 
Ventured to come again, found her awake 
And beckoning to her to approach. She still 
Was paler than her wont, Marietta fancied. 
And something in the face called to her mind 
The world outside, — somewhere there was a 

trace 
Of a great storm, but yet a calm, clear light. 
More beauteous than she ever saw before. 
Shone from her eyes, as in her sweet, low voice 
She said, " I was not well last night, dear child, 
Nor yet feel scarcely my accustomed strength, 
Though I will rise. But for a day or two, 
Whoe'er may come, would see no visitor, 
Not even Messer Angelo. I pray you 
Remember, and so tell him ! " 

For that day. 
And yet the next, was but small need of this, 
For he appeared not, but upon the third, 
Towards gathering eve, he came, and so received 
The message. He said naught, but bit his lip, 
And with a look of mute despair slowly 
Turned from the door. 

The early morning brought 
A letter from him, where he wrote, — 



ANGELO. 73 

" Madonna, 
See me repentant kneeling at your feet, 
Imploring your forgiveness ! All I spoke 
Is but too true, yet I was mad to speak it! 
You will not see me now, and I submit 
To your decree as my just penalty. 
But you will hold me not to my own word, 
To banish me forever from your sight ? 
Such was my speech, if now I well recall 
Aught that I uttered in that frenzied hour; 
I have not thus offended past all hope 
To win your pardon? Nevermore, I swear. 
Shall you have cause to thus complain of me, 
But for this once forgive me ! " 

And she answered, 
"With all my heart I pardon, Angelo, 
If one may pardon where was no offense, 
And I make no complaint. Yet for a time 
Methinks that it were well for both of us 
We should not meet. In but a day or two 
I leave the city for my summer stay 
At Santa Margherita. ^' 

She was going 
For all the summer, and would suffer not 
He bade farewell! — said this time not, "Come 
soon 



74 ANGELO. 

To see me, if the way is not too far!" 
Though she had told him her retreat, trusting 
That he would understand, and surely honor 
Her mutely hinted wish. 

He made no answer. 
But ere the week had passed, sent her a sheet, — 
The image of the Saviour on the Cross, 
She once had begged of him. 

And when she saw 
The throbbing, thorn-crowned brow, the bleeding 

side. 
The hands and feet pierced by the cruel nails. 
The white, parched lips, the breaking eye, where 

yet 
Even now, in this last agony, shone radiant 
A gleam of godly hope and trust divine, — 
The aching limbs, so heavy with near death. 
It seemed, but for two angels that sustained Him, 
He must have fallen at the feet of her 
Who stood a broken image of despair, 
Her form in anguish writhed, her hands stretched 

upward 
Beneath the suffering Son whom she had borne, — 
Saw all she had so oft looked on before, 
But pictured here as though 't were wrested from 
The bleeding life itself, with power so wondrous 



ANGELO. 75 

It pierced her with a pang of love and pity, 
As swift and keen as though she now beheld it 
For the first time, — and read below the cross, 
In Angelo's bold, rugged hand, the words, 
" No one hath knowledge how much blood it 

costs ! " — 
Vittoria covered up her face, and, trembling, 
Burst into passionate tears. 

The languid days 
Following the storms of that hot-hearted spring, 
The sultry weeks of summer, came and went, 
Crept slowly forward as with leaden pace, 
But yet they passed, with sureness as unerring 
As all the hours that borrow wings from joy. 
Passed swift enough — though 't was so long 

since last 
He looked upon her face, or heard her voice. 
Or even had some word or message from her — 
To Angelo, buried in many labors, 
So all absorbed in these blank days, wherein 
All joy and hope seemed utterly cut off, 
He sometimes nigh forgot he lived and loved her. 
That heaven had once been near and earth most 

fair. 
And other hours again, full oft when he 
Awoke in the blind stillness of the night, 



']6 ANGELO. 

All the old yearning, the sore, hungry pain, 
Rose up and shook his heart. 

'T were well for both 
That for a time they should not meet, she wrote. 
In those last, cruel lines that parted them. 
A time, — but yet how long was that ! — how long 
Meant she this penalty, this banishment 
Was to endure, this silence, that most surely 
She her own self must be the first to break ? 
Weeks more, months, years, perchance ? And if 

it should be — 
Forever, mayhap ? And what then, he thought, 
Though all his soul bled at the cruel fancy, — 
What then, and if it were ! Oh, what great mat- 
ter ! — 
Another shadow in the waning days 
That from the first were full of troubled darkness. 
Another drop of Marah in the cup 
That long has overflowed with bitterness, — 
It were but this, — no more ! 

And then, in all 
The solitude of his great spirit, cried, — 
"Labor and Sleep and Death! Oh, my three 

helpers, 
The sole remaining friends and comforts left 
To strengthen and sustain the fainting heart. 



ANGELO. 'J'J 

Whose slender joys contract e'er more and more 
To small and smaller circles, — light the path 
Grows e'er more lonely, dim, and difficult, — 
Leave me not ye, at least ! — desert me not, 
Stand by me to the bitter end ! Thou who 
Through the long day dost aid me to fight bravely, 
The weary battle e'er again renewed. 
Of life and consciousness ; thou who at night 
Dost smooth my thorny, solitary pillow, 
Bringst me oblivion for a little while. 
Truce to all warfare here; and thou, most sure. 
Most dear and welcome of them all, who at 
The last shalt hand me the sweet cup of Lethe, 
Forgetfulness, whence there is no awakening, — 
The heavy burden presses these sore shoulders 
Shall not grow all unbearable, so long 
As ye are faithful, — tarry not too long 
For my impatient waiting ! " 

And sometimes 
Did he acknowledge it was well, to be 
Thus stripped of every other cheer and gladness, 
That all the fervor of his soul was poured. 
All the deep currents of his being turned, 
But into the great channel of his labors; 
No foreign image now, no alien thought. 
No sense of passionate desire, broke in 



78 ANGELO. 

Upon his meditations, wooed his soul 
From his immortal aims. 

It was late morning 
On a cool, breezy day far on in summer, 
When in his workshop Angelo sat thus, 
His mind and rapid hands intently bent 
Upon the block of lucid marble, from 
Whose heart he had carved out a beauteous image \ 
A sleeping Cupid, one small, chubby hand 
Supporting the round, dimpled cheek, the light 
That streamed in brightly from p-bove shedding 
A life-like glow about the curly head 
And finely penciled brow. He was alone 
Save for Matteo, his old servant, — yet 
Far more than servant, his dear, trusted friend, 
Faithful companion of long years, — mutely 
Busied with paints and brushes in a corner; 
And save for the stray bee that now and then 
Dropped gently humming in through the great 

window, 
Ere long to find her pathway out again. 
And for the ringing of the sharp-edged tools 
The Master handled, perfect silence reigned, 
Unbroken oft for hours by but a word 
From either of the two. But as the bells 
Chimed out from many towers the hour of noon, 
A tap came at the bolted outer door. 



ANGELO. 79 

Matteo slowly went to open, jealous 
Lest his Maestro be disturbed, and holding 
The door but half ajar. Outside was asked, 
"Is Messer Angelo within, good friend, 
And may I see him ? " 

Angelo's keen ear 
Had caught the low, sweet sound, missed all too 

long. 
Of that beloved voice, and a great thrill 
Half sudden joy, half old, fresh-starting pain, 
Shot through his heart and shook his hand, so 

that 
He swiftly put the quivering chisel down. 
Lest one more stroke, too hastily made, should 

turn 
The delicate moulding of the Cupid's lips — 
That looked as from sweet flowers they just had 

sipped 
Fresh dew and honey, and curved gently upward 
As with the sunny smile of happy dreams — 
Into the downward lines of drooping sadness. 

" Aye, aye, Matteo ! " he called out, his voice 
Unsteady as his hand, " I am within ! 
Pray the dear lady enter, she is welcome ! " 
And quickly stepping down from his high stool, 



8o ANGELO. 

He hastened towards her, an unwonted flush 

O'erspreading his dark face. 

For one long instant 

When first again their eyes met they stood silent 

Without or word or motion, gazing deeply 

And lingeringly into each other's soul. 

Then Angelo's glance fell and turned aside, 

Beneath Vittoria's quiet, steady eye 

That wavered not, nor did the delicate color 

Change in her cheeks, where now no trace re- 
mained 

Of that long night. But noting how the furrows 

On his broad brow, the lines about his lips, 

Seemed to have deepened since she saw him 
last, 

She stretched out both her hands to him. 

" Madonna," 

He said, and swiftly seized them, "this in truth 

Is passing kind in you ! " 

'* Dear friend," she answered, 

**I come at last to thank you for that Saviour. 

Forgive me that these thanks should come so 
late,— 

The thanks e'en yet I scarce know how to speak 

Nor ever shall, perchance!" 

" It pleased you, then ? " 



ANGELO. ' ^ 8 1 

" Angelo, that is not the word ! 'T is all, 
And more than all my inmost soul had prayed, 
Hoped, and believed of you. What after that 
Could I say further? I have looked on it 
Till every line is graven on my heart." 

"Madonna," said he, in low tones, "I am 
Rewarded for all pains!" 

"Aye, I have come," — 
Speaking more gayly now, while her eye wandered 
About the great, wide chamber, — " yet scarce 

know 
If 't was permitted me to penetrate 
Into your inner sanctum, dear Maestro, 
Break in upon your labors ! " 

"You are free 
And welcome to the holiest that is mine ! " 
And then, reading her mute desire, "I have 
But little here worthy your glance, Madonna, 
Yet what there is — ! " 

And while she thanked Matteo, 
Who had been freeing from its dust and cobwebs 
The sole old easy-chair he could discover, 
And brought it to the lady now, he drew 
The cloth he hastily had thrown over it, 
Down from the sleeping Cupid. 



82 ANGELO. 

"Ah, Maestro! 
She cried, beholding it with kindling eye 
And bated breath, " how fair, how wonderful ! 
A masterpiece, in truth; none greater e'er 
Yet issued from your hands ! Methinks I see 
The little heart pulsate, the tender breast 
Heave gently with soft breath, — the delicate 

flesh 
Must living throb and yield beneath my fingers, 
If I should dare to touch him, — that e'en now 
His eyelids quiver and his laughing eyes 
Will open on us in another instant, 
Lest we move cautiously ! I would not wake 

him, 
He looks so happy thus ! " 

And Angelo, — 
"Had I the courage that was mine, Madonna, 
A little while ago, I had said boldly. 
Surely he never sleeps within your presence, — 
'T is but a trick!" 

And only now, too late 
Perceiving on what ground her foot had trenched, 
The tardy flush rose to Vittoria's brow. 
And she turned from him. 

Old Matteo, sharply 
From his far corner watching them, marveled 



ANGELO. 83 

His master ever stood as at High Mass, 
With head uncovered, — a deep mark of rever- 
ence 
Even the Holy Father scarce won from him. 
For when his Holiness some time ago 
Had honored them, he had but grimly doffed 
His cap an instant, and then put it back. 
Ah, true, the lady was most beautiful, 
No royal princess ever could be fairer. 
Crowned with such golden hair ! — a gliding sun- 
beam. 
She lighted all the place, thought the old man, 
His eyes long following her admiringly, 
As near his master, with her slow, proud step, 
She moved about the workshop, dim and dusky 
At those far ends where the light, pouring freely 
Through the square opening in the roof, reached 

not, 
And fell but through small, blinded panes, — the 

Master 
Uncovering all his treasures to her gaze, 
As he had never known him since he lived, 
To favor man or woman. The designs, 
Not all yet executed or completed, 
For the great tombs, — two female figures. Life 
Both active and contemplative, one standing 



84 ANGELO, 

Holding a mirror and a wreath of flowers, 
The other bent upon one knee, her head 
And eyes turned upward. And Matteo fancied 
The lady looking at her strangely like 
The kneeling image. The beloved Virgin 
With her sweet Babe, holding in one dear hand 
A softly feathered bird, pressed tenderly 
Against the blessed heart. And this the lady 
Was pleased with most of all, he well could see 
Dwelled longest on, with loving, lingering eyes, 
And passing admiration, — well, it was 
A marvel of sweet grace and beauty ! 

These, 
And whatsoever else he could discover, 
Sketches half finished, rude first forms begun, — 
And old Matteo wondered, too, how well 
The lady seemed to understand their meaning, — 
Above all else the towering mass of marble, 
Wherein the figure of a mighty Moses 
Was roughly just blocked out with few, great 

strokes. 
The Master showed. Angelo, submitting 
Once more resistless to the quiet power. 
Himself had felt her presence like the sun, 
That warmed his soul revived to new glad life. 
Melted the ice that round his heart had gathered. 



ANGELO, 85 

Like to a tree, when first the joyous sap 
Swells through its stem, and sends the dawning 

hope 
Of fresh, green flower through every thrilling 

twig. 
He knew but when the spring had come again. 
How long and bleak had been the dreary winter, 
How full of thirst and hunger. 

Thanking him 
With her sweet, sunny smile for his great cour- 
tesy, 
That suffered her to feed on so much beauty. 
And filled her soul with joy, she said at length 
She must depart. Then, while her smile went out, 
Added most gravely, — 

" Angelo, methinks 
We have been parted long ! " 

"Ah, long, Madonna, 
As an eternity ! " he said, a shadow 
For the first time that hour clouding his brow. 
" They tell of men imprisoned in dark dungeons, 
Who lived for years shut from the light of day. 
But 't was not life, that drawing breath!" 

And she 
With her deep eyes fixed on him, "Angelo, 
I too have suffered in our separation ! " 



86 ANGELO. 

"And is my exile to endure still longer?" 
He asked, the shadow deepening on his face, 
" The fiat you pronounced ? " 

" Call it not so ! " 
She gently pleaded, " It was not my word ; 
It was imperative necessity 
We both submitted to!" 

And with a fine 
Significance, whose meaning he well caught, 
She added, "But that hour is past, I know, 
I am well sure ! " 

" And may I come again ? " 
He cried, with sudden gladness, the last cloud 
Rolling away from him j " And shall all things 
Be as they were before ? " 

" All things, " she said, 
" Only more sweet and peaceful, Angelo ! " 

" I thank you, thank you ! " were all words he 
spoke, 

A deep light kindling in his eye. And then, 

"Have you returned so early to the city. 

While yet the summer lingers ? " 

Nay, I am 

At Santa Margherita still. I came 

But for an hour, — but to see you," she an- 
swered. 



ANGELO. Sy 

A touch of shyness in her voice and face 
That was turned from him. 

" Ah, Madonna ! " cried he, 
" Madonna ! " as he seized her hand and kissed it. 

And so they parted at the door, Vittoria 
Thanking him for his proffered company, 
Saying Marietta waited with the mules 
But a few rods away. 

Thus the old life — 
The glad, old life where her blest sight was ever 
The golden memory of yesterday, 
The never-failing promise of to-morrow. 
The hope and joy, the rest and the reward 
Of every toilsome day — began again. 
All things were now as they of old had been. 
Only, as she had said, more sweet and peaceful. 
For, in remembrance of his solemn promise, 
And of the anguished, unforgotten past, 
Angelo, watchful, kept the fire that burned 
Within his soul unquenched, unquenchable. 
Covered with dampening ashes, rarely suffered 
Even a small, timid flame to leap from out 
The smouldering glow, that was not swiftly 

smothered 
When in her presence. 'T was no easy price — 



88 ANGELO, 

Nay, a full heavy cost — to pay for such 
Dear privilege of being often with her; 
But yet he sometimes fancied that a part 
Of this forced outer calm flowed back upon 
His deepest inner life, till seeming grew 
Half to reality, — lifted his spirit, 
'Mid all its thirst unsatisfied, to something 
Like a sublime content, — helped him to bear 
The hopeless love that was his joy and anguish, 
A bitter sweetness, a sweet bitterness 
Whereon his soul fed, ever shifting, till 
He knew not if to smile or weep. 

So moved 
The days and nights that grew to weeks and 

months, 
And these to years at length : onward once more 
Upon their even course, another winter, 
Another spring and summer came and went, 
And yet another and another year 
Saw them united in the happy peace 
Of ripened, perfect friendship ; there was naught, 
No smallest adverse breath, no faintest discord, 
Save that he ever bore within himself. 
That now broke in on the sweet harmony 
Wherein their spirits dwelt. One thing alone 
^ Had grown of late into a cloud of trouble. 



ANGELO. 89 

And anxious, pondering care, to Angelo, — 
A strange expression on Vittoria's face, 
Such as it never wore ere now, but his 
Swift, searching eye detected instantly, — 
A look of languor, of deep weariness. 
That, like a dim, gray, subtle shadow, faint 
And scarce perceptible, perchance, but yet 
Unchecked, resistless, slowly, surely crept 
O'er every feature, putting out all light there 
But when he spoke to her, she smiled it off. 
Said his affection was too easily troubled. 
That he deceived himself : no other friend 
Had marked aught change, — " No other friend, 

Madonna, 
Sees with such eyes as mine ! " he had replied, — 
Yet owned that she felt weary now sometimes 
Beyond her wont. 

Thus, on one afternoon, — 
'T was in the city, and the early spring. 
After the unwilling absence of a day, 
Wherein his labor held him till late eve, — 
He found her lying back upon her cushions, 
Her eyes half closed, and now a change too deep 
To longer be denied, in her white face. 
"Madonna!" cried he, flying to her side, 
All his heart's anguish quivering in his voice,— 



90 ANGELO. 

"Madonna, you are ill, — have long been ill, 
And but concealed it from me ! Tell me all, — 
All the whole, fearful truth ! " 

"Aye, Angelo," 
She said, with a faint smile, her eyes fixed on 

him, 
'T is true that I was ill last night, — so ill 
I scarcely fancied I should see the morning. 
A fever" — 

" O great Heaven ! " he cried again, 
Striking his forehead as in swift despair, 
" Did I not know, did I not long perceive 
This dread misfortune coming ! " 

" Hush, my friend ! 
Be reassured, I pray you ! I am better. 
Far better now ! After the shadowy waters 
That washed my feet this night, but whence the 

Lord 
Was pleased to lead me safely forth once more 
Unto the light of day, no need to fear, — 
All will be well ! Come, sit you here with me. 
And let us talk of other things ! " 

" Ah, yes, " 
He said, as he obeyed, his sudden fears 
Half lulled to quiet by the confidence. 
The calm assurance of her voice and words ; 



ANGELO. 91 

" My fretful soul too easily in all things 
Darts forward to the last, worst, bitterest end, 
And clings there hopeless ! " 

Then, after a pause, 
Wherein he long gazed on her silently, 
He asked, unwonted calm in his low voice, 
"And if on the dark currents of that night, 
Madonna, you had drifted out into 
Eternity, had you regretted it?" 

A smile so bright, it seemed a heavenly radiance 
That lighted up her face with such swift glow. 
Broke from her lips and eyes, — 

"If those dark currents 
Bear us unto the islands of the blest, 
May we regret it, Angelo ? Know e'en 
A pang of pain at being called? Nay, rather 
A thrill of joy unspeakable ! " she cried. 
Half stretching out her arms with sudden fervor. 

" Without a pang, because she goes to him ! " 
His soul cried out, yet he shut down his lips. 
But when she turned to him again, and saw 
A great, sharp throe of pain pass o'er his face, 
She said, her hand on his, — 

" But I had grieved, 



92 ANGELO. 

Aye, deeply grieved, to leave so much behind 
That is most precious to my soul, — at parting 
From old, dear friends, and most of all from 

you, 
The dearest of them all ! " ' 

And hearing this, 
The wound just struck was well-nigh healed 

again 
By the sweet balm applied. 

"And must I leave you 
Just now, to go upon my journey southward, 
Where that new labor calls me, as you know ! " 
He said at parting. " Nay, methinks I cannot ! " 
" When go you ? " 

"By to-morrow." 

" And return ? " 
" I may not say, — within ten days, two weeks, — 
But surely I will haste me all I can." 
" Pray go in peace, dear friend ! I shall have 

time 
To quite grow well by then." 

"And I will come 
To say farewell, ere I depart to-morrow. " 

He found her on that morrow as he left her 
The day before, — not feebler nor yet stronger, 



ANGELO. 93 

But sweet and brave and cheerful as of old, 
And full of hope and confidence. Only 
When after but brief stay he rose to go, 
She said, a tremor in her gentle voice, 
A tearful tenderness in the deep eyes 
That rested long on him, — 

"And Angelo, 
So you will surely hasten back to me ? 
I shall much miss your face, friend, and some- 
times " — 

" Madonna, ah, you make me passing happy ! " 
He cried, not hearing in his too great ardor. 
The last faint word, the broken phrase unfin- 
ished, — 
"Aye, surely I will pray kind heaven to lend 
Wings to my hands and feet! Nay, say the 

word. 
And I go not at all, throw up this work, 
And send some other in my stead ! " 

"No, no, friend, 
Pray you have no such thought ! " she said, most 

bravely. 
But when he kissed her hands, the hands, he 

fancied, 
Had grown more slender and more lily-white, 



94 ANGELO. 

Even since he last had held them yesterday, — 
He felt how she bent forward, touched her lips 
An instant to his brow. And glancing up, 
A look of doubting rapture on his face, 
Saw that her eyes were brimming o'er with 
tears. 

" Madonna — tears — from you — for me ! " he 

cried, 
All his whole soul convulsed with sudden tumult, 
Scarce knowing his own words. 

"You see," she said, 
" I am yet weak and foolish from my illness ; 
I shall be strong and well when you return ! " 
And when he would have answered, waved him 

off, 
With a half smile upon her quivering lips. 

And so, her face turned toward him, but remem- 
bering 
That smile, and her last hopeful words, and 

happy 
In the unwonted tenderness she showed him. 
He left her, with no secret, warning voice 
To whisper aught of fear unto his soul. 
Ignorant, suspecting not, that while he tarried, 



ANGELO. 95 

Delayed but for a day beyond his hope, 
Three times a breathless servant was dispatched 
To bid him haste and come, if he would see her. 
That at her door the dark-winged messenger 
Had knocked and entered in. 

It was late dusk, 
When, travel-stained and weary, he returned. 
And from Matteo heard he had been called. 
Without a pause for rest, scarce taking breath 
He sped along the quiet streets, his feet 
Forgetting all fatigue, now winged in truth. 
And yet sore clogged and clinging to the earth 
With dragging, leaden weight — and reached her 

house. 
'T was chill and dark, windows and hall and 

stairs. 
And a thick, fearful silence reigned, unbroken 
By but a whisper or a muffled footfall. 
Only from somewhere in the night he fancied 
Sounds of low weeping came. 

He groped his way. 
Helped by swift arrows of sharp, painful light. 
That seemed to dart from out his whirling brain 
And light his path, up to her well-known cham- 
ber, 



96 ANGELO. 

Whose door stood open wide. From floor to 

ceiling 
He saw it hung with black, and in its midst, 
Tall tapers burning round, — two figures clad 
In mourning, keeping watch at head and foot, — 
Stood a high bier. 

A piercing sword of fire. 
That rent his soul in twain, — a sense as though 
His quivering heart-strings burst with one wild jar, 
Shook Angelo, and a mad cry of anguish 
Sprang to his lips, but yet no sound came from 

them j 
All reeling senses seemed to swoon an instant, 
A sudden darkness gathered round his sight. 
And, helpless, he threw out his hands against 
The wall, lest he should sink. Then in a moment 
With staggering step drew near. As in a dream 
He dimly saw how the two figures moved. 
And one — he had a feeble consciousness 
It was her loving little maid Marietta, 
Whose eyes were red with weeping — glanced at 

him 
And mutely made a sign to her companion. 
Then they both glided noiseless from the room, 
Left him alone there. 

Robed in stainless white, 



ANGELO, 97 

Her golden hair unbound and streaming down 
In gleaming flood about her, the clasped hands 
Folding a lily-stem, whose shining flowers 
Nestled unmoved and still against her heart, 
She lay before him. On her placid brow, — 
Oh, now in truth to be dimmed nevermore 
By faintest cloud ! — a calm unspeakable, 
A peace so deep, it beamed like to a light; 
Upon the lips, wherein the rosy life-blood 
Seemed still to linger warm, a faint, glad smile. 
And something on that brow and lip struck like 
A sudden chill and hush, an icy dumbness 
To the wild agony, that throbbed and flamed 
In every flying, fiery pulse of him 
Who stood down-gazing at her. 

He long stood thus, 
With burning, tearless eyes, and firm-set lips, 
Immovable, as turned to rigid stone. 
As though all power of life were dead within 

him ; 
Unconscious of or thought, or sense, or breath. 
Feeling alone each fibre of his being 
Drank in that image there, with a mad thirst 
No longest gaze could quench. Then suddenly 
He knelt, and leaning over kissed her hands. 
But at that one swift, clinging touch, that seemed 



98 ANGELO. 

Death-chill and yet as living flame in one, 
All the sealed fountains of his anguish burst, 
The bloody tears sprang gushing in his soul ; 
And suddenly remembering how the last time 
He thus had touched her hands, she had bent 

o'er him 
And pressed her lips upon his brow, he rose, 
And covering up his face, fled from the room. 
From her mute presence, never looking back, — 
Sped from the house into the silent street. 

" Madonna, O Madonna ! " now at length 
Burst a great cry from his white, groaning lips, 
As he tossed up his arms in fierce despair 
Towards the wide skies. The quiet stars shone 

there, — 
He would not see them, they looked like her 

eyes. 
Her eyes that smilingly gazed down from out 
A thousand gleaming places in the heavens. 
Her eyes that nevermore should open on him. 
" Madonna, O Madonna ! mine no more 
Even in such slender part of thy sweet self, 
As once was lent me for a little while ! 
Vittoria, — friend, — beloved, — oh, my own. 
Ever so gentle, passing kind and courteous, 



ANGELO. 99 

Thou hast gone from me ! Oh, how couldst thou 

deal 
Such merciless blow ! My God, my God, what 

may 
Come after this, if it be aught but death, — 
And death were so unutterably sweet, 
I know it is not that waits in reserve! — 
Shall find me fortified ! In this, fierce Fate 
Spent her last shaft j there is no more can wound 

me, 
No drop of wormwood more now left to drain, 
In all this cup of gall ! Death, Death, thou too ! 
Have I not called thee friend, and loved thee well. 
And thou hast come and stabbed me in the back 
Like a foul traitor ! " 

Thus, his brain afire 
With thousand whirling thoughts, he wandered on 
Swiftly from street to street and place to place. 
He knew not, cared not whither, following blindly 
Where'er his fitful steps might bear him. Some- 
times 
There filtered, like a single drop of sweet 
Through all this sea of woe, whose bitter tides 
Rolled o'er his struggling soul, the recollection, 
" But I yet saw her, kissed her hands ! Her 
hands ! 



100 ANGELO. 

And wherefore but her hands, and wherefore not 
Her brow, her eyes, her lips ? " His step grew 

slower. 
Then halted. Aye, he would haste back e'en now, 
To kiss her lips, this one, this only time 1 
Oh, this one kiss in truth, should be a treasure 
To bear forever ! And he turned about. 
Yet no, no, no, 't were better thus ! Perchance 
That it might break the peace upon her brow, 
Quench the sweet smile upon her lips, — the lips 
That nor in life nor death were ever his. 
Oh, how they smiled! How all the mists and 

shadows 
Of late had gathered o'er that face, were rent 
By that great radiance ! She was far away, 
And she could smile ! — she was with him, that 

other 
Her soul had ever held more dear than all things 
Of earth or heaven ! 

Slowly he moved again, 
And wandered further, ever on and on. 
Aimless, but without pause, until at length 
He felt the street no longer 'neath his feet, 
But grass, and broken stones, and barren stub- 
ble. 
And looking vaguely round with feeble wonder, 



ANGELO. 10 1 

Perceived by the dim twilight of the stars 
He was in the gray desert plain that stretches 
Near the Eternal City, here and there 
Showing some shepherd's poor, low roof amid 
The broken monuments and scattered fragments 
Of ancient power and splendor, — the poor shades, 
Still haunting their old home, of a great glory 
Long passed and half forgotten. 

"It is well!" 
He thought, "a fitting emblem of my life. 
This blasted field, where naught remains but ruin, 
And every hope is dead ! " 

And then beside 
A fallen column split from top to base, 
He dropped upon his knees and cried aloud, — 
" Christ, — Jesus, — Lord, — Redeemer, — Helper, 

— Saviour ! 
Help, save me now ! If 'mid the joys of heaven 
Thy soul now tastes of everlastingly, 
If sitting at the right hand of Thy Father, 
Thou still dost guard some aching memory of 
Thy earthly agony, if Thou rememberest 
The thirst that tortured Thee, the sun that 

scorched, — 
The thorns, the nails, the spear that pierced Thy 

flesh, — 



I02 ANGELO, 

And, sharper than all else, the two-edged sword 
That rent thy soul, perceiving the ill heart 
Of those for whom Thou wast prepared to die, 
For whom Thou gavest Thy blood and life, — 

have mercy 
Upon the bleeding anguish of my spirit, 
Bind up this maddening wound ! " 

And he sank down 
As she had once, on that long other night, 
His face upon the ground, one arm still clasping 
The broken pillar round : — lay thus, sometimes 
Half fancying the cold, still stone beside him 
Was she, Vittoria, — that they both were dead. 
And clasped within each other's arms, lay buried 
Deep underneath the quiet earth, far from 
The heat and turmoil of the world: — lay thus 
As in a waking dream, his fevered brow 
Pressed deep into the new, wet grass, that sprang 
Among the withered stalks of last year's flowers, — 
A long eternity : — heard not how from 
The distant city churches midnight chimed. 
Then one by one the hours of early morning. 
In the far eastern heavens began to break 
The faint, sweet promise of another day, 
And a cool breath passed over Angelo. 
He raised his head and gazed around. And then, 



ANGELO. 103 

Remembering the last words the Saviour uttered, 
With parched, white lips, and head bowed down 

in death, — 
He too cried suddenly out, "It is accomplished! 
I give her up, my God, to Thee and him ! " 
But his own voice now sounded loud and strange 
Unto his ear, and sank into a whisper, — 
"I do submit me to my Father's will, 
Shall bid my heart lie still and be content, 
As surely thou hadst bid it, my beloved ! 
Thou Angel with the shining lily-rod. 
Spirit divine of love and light and peace, 
It was sufficient joy for mortal heart, 
Sufficient cause for never-ending praise, 
That thou wast lent me for a little while, — 
Henceforward thou must be unto my soul 
But as the sweetest dream it ever knew!" 
Tears gushed from out his eyes, and yet again 
A thrill of pain went through him, as he thought 
He had not kissed her lips. 

Those few who met him, 
As in the gray light of the early dawn 
He slowly threaded back his weary way 
Through the long streets, stepped shyly from his 

path. 
Fancying they beheld one risen from the dead. 



I04 ANGELO. 

For three days more no one saw Angelo 
About the city, none but old Matteo 
Knew he had yet returned from his long journey; 
Then he appeared and hastily fell to work 
On a great block of finest grain, till 'neath 
His restless hands there grew to life a form 
That proved a pride and marvel of the world : 
The image of a dying youth, — reclined, 
His head thrown back, one arm tossed up above it, 
The other quivering hand pressed on his breast, 
Unbroken power in the broad brow, shaded 
By clustering hair, but yet in the closed eyes. 
The delicate nostrils, and most beauteous lips 
Such subtle sense of pain, those who gazed on it 
Even while their breathless lips o'erflowed with 

praise, 
Felt the swift tears rush to their eyes. 

But he, 
The master who had wrought the wondrous work, 
Ne'er passed it by in after years, but that 
He turned his face away, and in his soul 
Rose up the words he wrote beneath the cross, — 
"No one hath knowledge how much blood it 

costs ! " 



